Page 35 of Catching Feelings

Marissa holds up a hand to slow my verbal diarrhea. “Say no more. I’m on it.”

Then the whistle blows to start the game, and I’m not thinking about Marissa and Harper anymore. My eyes are fixed to the field as the players run out, number 13 standing head and shoulders above the rest.

Hamilton Lakes plays a stunner of a game. They win 24–17, coming back from a tricky first half (Gabe fumbles a pass that I know he’s going to torture himself over for weeks) with strong defense bringing them back in the second half.

And Tyler looks really good out there. He sets a few blocks that make me wince at the impact he sustains, but the other guys bounce right off him. Still, each tackle stops my heart and has my pulse racing. I spend most of the game with my fingernails biting into my palms, fists squeezed tight, trying not to audibly cry out every time Tyler gets hit. He knows what he’s doing, I remind myself. He’s as strong as any of them. He’s padded and helmeted and as safe as possible.

He’s just a friend.

But I’ve never had my heart in my throat watching my friends play this game before. Never been so worried about cracked ribs and contusions, never cheered so loudly when they made an excellent play.

Most notably, he crashes into the opposing team just in time to clear a path for Gabe, who catches a pass that has the whole stadium on its feet.

“Yes!” I scream. “What a hit!” Harper and Marissa shoot me a weird look, but I don’t even pretend to tone down my enthusiasm. You show ’em what you’re made of, Tyler.

When he takes his helmet off at the end and runs a hand through his hair, I can tell he’s exhausted and sweaty but also—happy.

Something about seeing him so focused on the field, all flushed and damp, puts me back on a dark, quiet street, a square of light from the porch behind him as he bends closer, and closer, and…

Our secret.

The memory makes me shiver.

I shove it away to focus on my work, staying by the merch table at the end of the game, when students are flooding the field and girlfriends are getting scooped up. I definitely don’t think about wrapping my legs around Tyler’s waist and letting him hoist me triumphantly in the air. I’ve never had fantasies of being cavemanned around like that before, but something about this guy… He makes me feel like I can trust him to hold me up.

He clearly wanted to kiss me. But is he into me for real, or does he just want to mess around?

Not that it matters. Starting anything at all would be far too complicated.

But I can’t stop thinking about him anyway.

Then I look up through the crowd of fans trying to buy merch, and Tyler’s making his way to the front, and my fantasies are suddenly very, very loud.

“Hey,” he says with a grin.

“Great game out there.” I smile back. Keep it professional, Sabrina. Friendly, not flirty. “You barely gave up any yards.”

“Thanks.” He bends toward me to cut through the din of celebration around us, and my pulse flutters against my will. “Want to come to the postgame party? It would be cool to get to talk. Hang out. We haven’t had a chance since…”

We both fill in the blanks to end that sentence.

I waver for a long moment. Oh, I definitely want to talk and hang out. I want to do a lot more than that.

But I can’t. Can’t risk the feathers it would ruffle—and the tailspin it could send me into. I can’t go back to the mess I was last spring.

So, I grimace. “I’m actually not feeling that great. Rain check?”

He frowns. “Shit, that sucks. Of course. Can I get you anything? Happy to drop off snacks or medicine or whatever at your place—”

Guilt pools in my stomach. Why does Tyler have to be so nice to me? Isn’t being hot bad enough? “That’s okay. Go enjoy the party.” I flash him my patented Spirit Committee smile and hope it’s dazzling enough to distract him. “Your first Hamilton Lakes game, and you smashed it. You deserve to celebrate.”

He smiles back, but there’s still concern in his eyes. Not deterred at all. “If you’re sure. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

I wave him off, feeling worse and worse by the minute. But it would be a terrible idea to turn this into a big deal. Least said, soonest mended, as my mom always says. If I don’t make it awkward, there’s nothing to be mad at me about!

Just as Tyler turns away, my phone buzzes. My heart leaps, and I start to smile despite myself—is it him already, making some joke about picking up chicken noodle soup?—but my face falls just as quickly when I see the name on the screen.

Ryan.